


Period Vampires

by Arachneedle



Category: Original Work
Genre: Blood Kink, Body Worship, F/M, Goddess Worship, Oneshot, Period Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Poetry, Power Dynamics, Shameless Smut, Vampires, Weird Sex, idefk, my love affair with language, prose-poetry, wrote this when i was on my period
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:13:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24505990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arachneedle/pseuds/Arachneedle
Summary: hot period sex. *periodt* Also crazy prose-poetry
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Period Vampires

_She leads him into a darkened room, his palm slick with sweat against her own, salty tears bleeding out from where their fingers join, laced, twined together like twisted ivy. There is a musty, hot smell like burning velvet, and something liquid, tangy, hinting of the sea. His surroundings blur as his vision jars, his head throbbing, vibrating with a pregnant silence that balloons inside his consciousness until his eardrums swell to bursting with the pressure. He blinks a soreness from his eyes and smells hot dust again, always hot, dry dust, dust from mothballs, fabric, dead skin, crushed bone, crumpled creased clenched tumbling trickling tickling crossed gushing folded wrapped draped interior of innate_ **insideness**. _They are so specifically_ **indoors** _\- nowhere else in the whole wide world exists where such_ **i n t e r i o r i t y** _can be found, nowhere does such a burning tight dark heat envelop them. The room is stuffy, stuffier, the stuffiest, most-closeted indoors-y claustrophobic space ever, with drawn curtains and drawn drapes and thick tapestries so that the whole room is swathed from head to foot in luxury of the richest, most lavish kind, inch-deep velvet tumbling from swooping cloth eaves where silk swags cascade over the walls. And it’s all monochrome, all one single shade -_ **red.** _Everything is red; scarlet, carmine, deepest claret, strongest burgundy, intoxicating, violent, aristocratic, faded, lascivious red coats every inch of space inside the room, carpeting the floor, decking out the walls, hanging from the ceiling, covering the bed._

__ _ The bed. The bed is one of only four or five pieces of furniture in this room which, despite feeling so  _ **i n s i d e,** _ is actually rather large. A mahogany dressing-table gleams on short, spindly legs, a tarnished silver mirror darkly reflecting the world around. A little padded poof is tucked beneath the bed, and in one corner there’s a big, dark wardrobe, most likely also mahogany. Then there’s the little cabinet beside the bed, with an empty glass and a full bottle of the red stuff atop, and some dark, indefinable objects inside and around it that might be instruments of torture. The thought is exciting, heightening the stifling summer heat he feels oppressing and liberating him. _

__ _ Her hand is so slick in his grasp that she loses her grip and rakes his palm with her long nails. The talons drag sensation over his flesh and he flinches, and whimpers, letting out a pained moan. She turns around to face him and tries to grab his hand more firmly, but his fingers have crumpled inwards and instead she presses them into an unnatural shape, a sort of weak fist. He enjoys the foreign sensation, and groans, and she presses his fingers inwards again then releases his hand only to clutch at his sleeve higher up, dragging on the fabric and somehow pulling him down to her level through this odd maneuver. She sways, and her eyes settle on his lips. Their faces collide but their mouths do not meet for a second, and an odd, animalistic moment ensues, where he feels her nose and satin-soft cheek bump into his jawbone and their eyes are locked on each other, two pairs of beady, unreadable black wells gleaming wetly and sharing a split-second of fiery bondage, as if a tendon of heated muscle attaches to both corneas and pulls them closer, the heaviness of bone and softness of skin colliding with a soft, faintly painful bump, her open eye hitting his temple and rolling over the thin skin there.  
_

__ _ He wants her to do it again. He wants her to drag her eyeball over his skin, and oddly enough, she does, tracing the line of his cheekbone. This feels more intimate than a kiss, more personal, for all the time their other eyes watch, silent spectators of a strange scene, unattached, divided, drawn closer. And then she tires of her game, and bites down, hard, on his bottom lip, stretching it with her teeth, drawing blood. He takes a shuddering in-breath, a kind of hoarse cry, but she does not let go - she draws out the pain, sucks up his saliva as it begins to drip and those drops that she cannot reach she runs her finger over, slicking up his face, the faint lines of stubble over his upper lip, his filchum, his cupid’s bow, his dimples, his cleft chin. He hums, still in thrall to her, bent down to her level and held, neglected there by her tenacious bite, white, gleaming teeth beginning to be marred by the brown bloodstains. Her nostrils scent the effluent and she devours it along with the sweat and saliva, sucking it down and groaning in a deep, guttural way that sits low in her throat and causes a tickling, aching hum in her gullet. She feels a need to be filled, fucked, opened out and flattened and turned inside out until she doesn’t know which way is up; but she has other desires, too, those more egotistical than id-like, nurtured, sophisticated, refined passions that have been swelling inside her for some time.This is a release, a blossoming - she wishes not to waste it. _

__ _ There is something pure about something so strange. They surge into a kiss, two towers of surf crashing inwards, and spit flows in runnels down her chin, destroying and dissolving the makeup there that remained as lips envelop lips, sucking, engulfing, inhaling the rubbery appendages within, latched on, fighting for dominance, symbiotic, unhurried feeding emanating in waves from both investors. But suddenly she feels a coldness about the face, and pulls away, stumbling backwards, wiping her mouth, adjusting her features until she feels presentable again, in control. She must have it her way, this time - he is besotted, he will do whatever she wants, either way he will feel exorbitant pleasure. But she - she is a creature of strange tastes and wild fantasies, and right now, the mood has taken ahold of her, and she cannot be tamed. Not when pleasure is so rare, so highly prized, not when she has everything within her grasp. _

__ _ So she smiles at him deviously. She looks like a mad woman, her lipstick smeared in pink smudges all over her face, her eyeliner a sticky mess over her cheeks, her hair falling sideways from it wild chignon; she is poised, perfect, ready. She has it all planned out. She unhooks her bra from under her dress with one hand and tosses it aside, running her hands lightly over her breasts and peaked nipples now poking through the thin fabric, in her element. Then, carefully, slowly, she spreads her legs, her stilettos dragging on the carpet, catching, her tight dress forced higher and higher up her thighs until she is almost in a split, shameless, powerful, enthroned on her bed. And as she sits like an empress, he can only gawp. For blood, hot, black and sticky, coats her thighs, flowing over her dress in red rivulets and staining everything a deeper, stronger ruby than even the dark carpet, wine pooling at her core, her wetness revealed.  _

__ _ He can smell it - he can smell the blood, even from a yard away. A strong, sweet smell, fishy, tangy and metallic; there is something exotic about it, suggestive, a hint of chilli in amongst the confused tangled flavours. He kneels before her, and for a second she thinks she is his liege lord and he a loyal knight paying homage, but he is enchanted, mesmerised, and she feels the sorceress’ power flowing through her and down into her core and knows that this is an honour bestowed by femininity alone. She wants badly to touch herself, but she will wait for him to do it, this time - making him act, binding him in his choice. His face flushes as he stares, his cheeks burning, eyelids fluttering like an epileptic's. He is holding back, trying to reason. Such egoism is pointless. _

__ _ All at once, he crawls forwards and takes hold of her skirt and the bedsheets in one fist, pulling himself up so he is level with her legs. There is a desperation to his actions, and she throws her head back and growls softly at the suggestion in such a move, her noise turning to a breathy shriek as he plunges his hand into the mass of gore and strokes her swollen lips, flicking her clitoris with his thumb and rolling his fingertips over every little crenellation of her castle, the layers crinkled and succulent like savoy cabbage. He is wide-eyed with childish wonder, and she, too, feels a naive awe at the soft, exploratory touches to her organism, so sensitive from menstruating that the slightest brush stings like a mayfly. But oddly enough, this cannot deter her anymore - she is savage with want, her mind has wandered off on a tangent of fantasy. _

__ _ His hands are bathed in rust. He wants go all in, plunge his fingers as deep they can go, but he knows she must be sore. An absent, broad gesture traces bloody prints all over her thighs, clots pooling in her stretch marks. Flicking his tongue over the inside of his bottom lip, he remembers the fierce sting of her bite and it moves him to reciprocate the movement, his teeth catching the flesh of her inner thigh and bruising it sublimely, a little livid splotch forming on the pale expanse of skin like an island in a sea of blood-smeared cellulite. She hums into the movement, thoughtful, and he raises his head to catch her eye. She chuckles, then - he is her bloodhound. A very gothic scene they make, too; but she wants to take it further, and she knows he will oblige.  _

__ _ He catches the flicker of light in her eye and dips his head again, inhaling the wet fumes of her menstrual blood. Then, nestling his head in between her thighs, he begins to explore, coming closer and flicking the tip of his tongue over her clitoris, catching a drop of blood as he does so. The taste is odd, salty, spicy yet sweet - she is the sea, he thinks, she is an ocean of sweet-and-sour juice, all dripping duck fat and slippery noodles and spicy peppers. His hunger surges at this and he kisses her right on the mouth, thrusting his tongue inside the yawning abyss of red, testing the texture of the blood clots on his tongue and the spongy sweet flesh just inside her vagina. _

__ _ Her muscles contract around him, and she squeezes his head with her thighs, a liquid warmth flooding her belly and womb as he probes at her most sensitive spots. She wants to crush him, and indeed, it appears that he wants to be crushed, for his tongue only surges deeper as he presses his forehead to her mound and buries his eyes in the thicket of soft hair that covers that delicate skin. Her scent is all around him, warm and musky like hot marzipan, and mixed in with her period blood is a clear, sugary effluent that urges him on. Now she is close; she sighs and shrieks and moans, starting up and falling back, purring in pleasure, fisting her hands in his hair and shoving him deeper so she is fucking his mouth and cursing through gritted teeth as he hits all her spots and squeezes her buttocks with firm fingers. He is absorbed, engrossed, a part of her now, feasting on her womb's blood like some symbiotic parasitic creature, attached, coddled, crushed, focused, intent upon eating out her insides as thoroughly as possible. Even her inner walls are squeezing him now, entrapping him python-like. She is so busy devouring him that her poise is gone, her demeanour has slipped into oblivion. She is no longer a whore in high-heels and spaghetti straps but a wild animal, a twitching carcass, glorious and ruinous as she rots in the darkness of the forest where the leeches bite her and the vultures abhor her, a wet, humid darkness stealing over the room and condensing on the drapes so the red is soggy and black and the mirror is fogged up. _

__ _ Now she is shouting. She has lost all sense of self, of time. His fingers are digging in hard enough to bruise her, his mouth exhausted, his penis far from flaccid as he enslaves himself to her pleasure, morphing into a degraded serf before this beautiful monster, a tiny crawling ant beside this goddess, this giantess, transformed by her throne of blood from a low woman into a powerful sorceress. Her feet flex and throb in her heels, but she has neither the strength nor the resolve to kick them off, and he in turn cannot bear to pause for even a second. They both feel the urgency of this moment, the intensity of release. Maybe they will have slow, languid sex some day, when they are content with each other and themselves, when their powers have dimmed - but right now they refuse to give up the fight. They will wrestle and wrangle until they pass out, until nothing can stave off the enemy of exhaustion, until their bodies are joined in unbreakable bondage for all eternity. And until they reach that point, he will attend slavishly to her caprices and needs, and she will accept that worship unequivocally.  _

__ _ Two lines slip inside her, curving round to hug the curve of her inner passage. His mouth attends to the petals and his fingers to the ovary, juicing her, stroking her, catching every drop, his face a bloody mass. She is growling now, tugging at her dress in frustration, trying to get it off so she can touch herself. Spaghetti straps snap and buttons go flying as she finally wriggles free, and now she is leaning forward, almost squatting, sitting on his face, suffocating him with her fat rolls and crushing his skull between her thighs as her hands come up to clumsily fondle her breasts, brushing over her nipples and squeezing as much flesh as she can reach. She has no time for teasing touches or massage now - that is his job, she is just here to help get herself off. Emotionally, she feels ready to burst, but the dam has not quite broken and as yet the tide is stemmed. It is her partner's job, now, to break down every wall, every barrier. She wishes him luck.  _

__ _ Surprise jerks her out of her wildness as he kisses her clitoris once, then withdraws his head from between her thighs, still pumping and twisting with his fingers. She watches him, wide-eyed, as he rises till he looms over her, his fingers stilling inside her. They are nose to nose, impenetrable eyes once more joined by that tendon of heat, and she can pick out every individual blood clot where her effluent is smeared over half his face, a mask of rusting ruby from jaw to cheekbone like pink stubble. Then his mouth is on hers, and she tastes herself on his lips, a mixture of sweat and salt and sugar, somewhat fishy and somewhat sweet. His fingers grip her chin firmly, and his other hand, still sheathed in her, begins to move, pressing down and ghosting over spongy patches, digging deep and twisting so she squirms and sighs and breaks the kiss. There is a depth and meaning to this that contradicts her cold deic demeanour, and suddenly she is the vulnerable one, and a warmth flows through her, spilling over into her chest and stomach and womb and yoni like thick yoghurt, making her shudder and clench and purr with complete and utter satisfaction, liquid arcing up and out of her in a small jet starting at her cervix.  _

__ _ As her awareness returns she realises her orgasm and feels the push of her pelvic floor and inner walls with something like wonder, as though it were the first time. Her toes are gripping the carpet, and she unfurls them gently, a sudden shyness overcoming her. Her partner withdraws his hand slowly, and she flinches a little, then relaxes, flopping back on the bed. But he is not done. He climbs on top of her, and she grins lazily up at him, and in return he chuckles. Then he gestures to his erection, and she giggles in surprise; she had forgotten. So, with a loose, easy hand, she wraps her fingers around his penis and begins to pump, drawing sensation up and over the foreskin and sensitive head, squeezing and milking the body for semen, flicking her wrist a little so he whimpers slightly and his vision blurs. Soon he is coming in spurts of cloudy white, and she pleasures him through his orgasm, sinking her teeth into the soft parts of his neck with some of her old ferocity and earning a guttural moan, smothering him in kisses and jerking her wrist a little faster so he finishes quicker. In no time at all, he feels himself sinking deeper and deeper into the mattress as sleep overcomes him, and dimly he senses her kissing his cheek and heading out to the bathroom. Then there is only noise - her soft feet padding over the carpeted floor, the trickle of water as her urethra cleanses itself of bacteria, the rustle of sheets as she crawls back in beside him, curls up, and goes to sleep. They are soon both snoring.  _

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a while ago so I apologise if quality is low. I thought I might as well post it since I normally do long, plot-based fics and this is just a dirty, bizarre oneshot with unnamed characters. Still, I like the language...think of it as an experiment.


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